


You Want It Darker

by vash (yarost)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Auror Harry, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Daddy Kink, Feminization, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Deathly Hallows AU, a lot of sex and self loathing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-20
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-01-20 01:35:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12422316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarost/pseuds/vash
Summary: What can he learn, by the hand and its impact, by the taste of his own blood? If he could measure his own pain, how much of it would be enough to repent?Or: Harry survives. Hermione and Ron do not. After seven years filled with survivors’ guilt, Harry tries to find absolution in the hands of a captive Voldemort.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, another Tom/Harry. This time I’m trying something longer, with more plot. There will be changes in the canon but I don’t want to spoil anything, but basically the way the light side “won” and the horcruxes were destroyed was different. I’ll add more tags as I post more chapters. The sex in the story will be rough and kinky, so I’m asking anyone with triggers related to that to not read this fic. I love torturing Harry and making him cry I’m sorry! This fanfic is an excuse to do that a lot. I’ll try to update it regularly. I want to thank the amazing Nocturnememory for all the help and betaing of the fic and for being kind and patient with me. I hope you like it!

Behind his eyelids; a nightmare.  
But then, he was almost used to it.

It was like waking up beside a lover, one of the cruel kind. The morning was cold and the light was pale, bred from a white sun. At that time he was still to know pain as a remedy, so he could only sit alone with his trauma. A neuro-healer at St. Mungo’s had suggested he keep a dream journal and for a while, he did. But there was no hidden meaning to his nightmares. He dreamt of death, and little else.

Harry got up, showered and dressed, brushed his teeth and went downstairs to brew coffee with a distracted flick of his wand. He ate a slice of toast with butter and strawberry jam, examining the daily prophet mechanically so he had an easy subject to comment on at the Ministry. The neatness of his routine, of this little cottage near the woods bought with the gold left by his parents, was a comfort that kept madness at bay. But lately, as the promises of recovery remained unfulfilled and the world post-Voldemort learned how to be wicked once more, the deep, dark waters of his sadness steadily began to eat him whole.

He had remained little toy soldier, watching the flames envelop his ballerina and wishing, wishing he had jumped into the fire with her.

He was twenty-four. For seven years now Ron and Hermione had been dead.

With a last look at the Quidditch section – funny how that used to bring him joy – he folded the newspaper and went to work.

 

_…Even if we die now it was worth it, Harry we won—_

No unmarked graves. But a few of them left no bodies to be buried. Sometimes he thought guiltily of one of his greatest wounds: that Hogwarts was tainted to him. He could never return home because home was painted bloody. It was a selfish feeling but he felt it anyway, unheroic inside.

“You’re doing it again,” Sarah said, with no real bark to her words, just a calm, resigned and worried timbre that reminded him of Mrs.Weasley.

“Hmm?” Harry looked at her, his quill pressed against the same spot of the parchment for the last few minutes; the ink like a cut, like a drop of blood.

“Day-dreaming.”

“I was not daydreaming.”

And he wasn’t, not really. He was pressing the blade to the bone. He was making the shallow bile rise up because that’s what he deserved. He was remembering because that was all he could do.

“You were far away,” she half-smiled and entered the office – a crowded room filled with parchments, books and wanted posters – looking unconvinced at his denial. There was something almost unbearably tender about her. Harry thought she looked as princesses are supposed to look, with her dark skin and beautiful brown eyes, with her head full of long, long curls.

Harry smiled, “I was thinking about what to write to fill this report. You know how Francis gets when we turn in short ones.”

“Are you still writing it?” she said, a subtle reproach, like an echo of Hermione. “Let me see.”

Gently she Accio’d the paper and flicked through it.

“You aren’t following protocol again. I know it’s stupid but you need to list all spells we used. I’ll finish it for you.”

“But it’s my turn—”

“It’s ok,” Sarah said. “I have time and anyway Halifax is calling you at the Department of Mysteries.”

“Did he say what’s it about?” Harry paled slightly, his heart a painful, trembling knot in his chest.

“Not to me,” she said, and then grinned. “I guess being Harry Potter still has its perks.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed weakly, getting up. “I guess it does.”

 

Almost a decade ago he had seen this floor sprinkled with broken glass. The veil was still silk, still unchangeable, but Sirius never came back. Still a knife to the heart. He walked slower when he was passing it. An easy form of torture: it had been his fault.

“Is he awake?” Harry asked in lieu of a good morning, panting a little from the rush through the Ministry.

Halifax was a Muggle-born wizard who served under Scrimgeour. Tall and handsome the way certain men tend to be after forty; as if his beauty had only ripened then. He sometimes looked at Harry with lingering glances, his hand upon his shoulder, his torso bending slightly so he could envelop the young man in his shadow.

“Why, hello to you too, Harry,” Halifax teased with a smile.

“Sorry—Hi. But is he?” Harry flushed, but pressed on.

“Yes,” the other wizard confirmed, starting to walk further into the department, followed by Harry. “He woke up four months ago.”

“Four months!” Harry stopped, exasperated. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

“You were in Transylvania, until two weeks ago,” Halifax explained. He hesitated for a moment and then added: “The Minister wanted to take a look at him first, as well.”

“But why? I thought he wasn’t getting involved. That’s what we agreed on, seven years ago.”

“Harry this is big. Do you really think the Minister wouldn’t want to have a say in it? Besides, he shares the same opinion as I do. And, frankly, most of the others.”

Harry arched an eyebrow, “Which is…?”

Halifax looked at him as if the Boy-Who-Lived was younger than his years. As if his naivety was just another sign of loveliness.

“That this is an impossible task. That he is beyond any redemption.”

They halted in front of a small door.

“Edward Halifax and Harry Potter,” the older wizard said, to the unknown listener beyond the door. “Here to see Satan.”

“Is that how we’re calling him?” Harry laughed, incredulous.

“Better than You-Know-Who, don’t you think?” Halifax chuckled, opening the door.

What was supposed to be a broom closet was a large, well-lit room, in which a group of wizards wearing the sigil of the Department of Mysteries observed what looked like a mirror made of water. One wizard approached the two newcomers and Harry yelped in surprise, feeling something prickle his neck.

“Sorry,” he said, producing a potion in which he dropped the sample of Harry’s blood. “It’s a Polyjuice detector. We can’t risk it.”

Harry barely listened.

Across the room, a glimpse of him.

On the silver of the mirror, a vision akin to an old love. The boy felt a strange elation seeing Tom, and didn’t notice all the steps he had taken, or how close he was to the mirror now. And, as if he too could feel it, Voldemort looked up and smiled. A wicked thing, a dimension away from Harry and yet looking him in the eye.

Halifax put a hand on Harry’s shoulder and with that, the moment dissipated.

“This must be hard for you.”

Harry looked away from Voldemort and shook his head. Every wizard and witch in the room was watching him and, realising that, the boy blushed.

“I—ah, no, I’m ok,” he blurted, and to change the subject, added: “Where is he anyway? Is it like—” he thought about interrogation rooms in muggle criminal movies but no one would understand it. “Can he see us?”

“It’s something based on the Room of Requirement. It’s an amazing spell, only those who know about You-Know-Who’s true whereabouts can access this room,” a pretty, plump witch explained, flushed, but sounding rather proud. “Hi. I didn’t introduce myself. I’m May Roberts. I’m in charge of the logistics. Second in command, after Halifax.” she added, with excitement.

Harry almost smiled, but it pained him, for she, like Sarah, reminded him of Hermione.

“The water mirror is far more simple,” May carried on. “Something to allow us to keep watch without interacting with him more than necessary. It’s also a portal – the whole area beyond the mirror is, in the lack of a better term, his cell. The wall where the mirror hangs conceals it. There are no other exits – and he can’t leave through the portal without the express consent of a wizard or witch uncontrolled by the Imperio curse.”

“You really thought of everything,” Harry spoke, impressed. “Nice to meet you too.”

“May here is one of our brightest. A little bit of a genius.” Halifax said.

The young witch reddened at that at the compliment, “I just did my job. It’s the Dark Lord, after all.”

There was a pause in which the boy gazed at the monster again. The monster didn’t look back this time.

“So he lives there now,” Harry concluded. “In that…room.”

“Ever since he woke up, yes.”

“Did he try to…?”

“Oh yes,” Halifax answered. “Rendered three men unconscious with his bare hands. Almost bit me, the bastard. He was trying to get to a wand but we simply don’t enter the room carrying one. We leave them all here.”

“He’s behaving now,” May added. “He has something to behave for.”

“What is it?” Harry asked, knowing the answer, knowing the reason like he knew his own name.

“You,” she smiled. “He’s been, hm, demanding to see you since he opened his eyes.”

“As if he has a right to you,” Halifax scoffed, offended to a personal extent. “The way he talks about you…possessive and smug…”

 _In a way_ , Harry thought, as he remembered those words like songs, like lines of some unholy poetry, _he just might_

It comes with some ownership, does it not, to trust a fragment of soul upon a body, to drink the blood from the flow of its young veins, to swear that flesh to death, to covet it, then, precious as it is, the only remaining vessel of one’s immortality.

Now, no Ron and no Hermione, no Hogwarts, no parents, no Sirius, no Remus, no Dumbledore either—Harry lived unclaimed.

_The boy is mine._

“I want to see him,” Harry said. “I want to talk to him. Here—” he took his wand out of his pocket. May extended a reverent hand and held it, before putting it away carefully along with the others, on a shelf.

“I’ll—I’ll let you in,” she offered.

“Harry are you sure—” Halifax pulled him by the arm, gently.

“Yes,” the boy interrupted him, firmly. “I want to.”

“Alright,” the wizard agreed, sombre. “If he tries anything—”

“You’ll come to my rescue,” Harry smiled and touched the older man’s hand with his own. “I don’t think he will. He knows what I am.”

Reluctantly, Halifax let go. Harry touched the portal’s surface, its matter shimmering and embracing his fingers like a coat of water, and then, taking a deep breath, let his whole body enter into that carefully made lair, to meet the muzzled tiger inside.

Seven years ago, when all his siblings had been destroyed, and Harry remained the one survivor of the family of keepers of Tom Riddle’s soul, he had put his wand against his neck like a knife, still dressed in Nagini’s blood, looking at the cornered Dark Lord, his body numbed, yet to be engulfed by the depth of his loss. Voldemort could have used the Cruciatus on him and he wouldn’t feel a thing. The wand’s end digging at his skin was a lonely comfort; victory was his because victory didn’t mean anything anymore.

“Call it off,” The Chosen One had ordered. “Or I’ll do it, and you’ll be mortal again.”

He had nothing left to lose, then.

That was still true now.

“Harry,” came Tom’s voice, softer than he remembered, but still a beautiful baritone, a deep, exulted sound. “Finally.”

And no more after that.

Harry thought Tom would say something else, but for several seconds all he did was to assess what the years had done to his Horcrux, with the look of a man first meeting his foreign bride.

Harry found himself examining Tom, too. He was as handsome as before, albeit a little thinner, a little paler. His dark hair was longer and his eyes had lost their red gleam. When his gaze weighted too much, Harry looked away.

Voldemort was confined to a modest room. There was a bed and a desk, both made of dark wood, and shelves full of books. There was a console piano at the corner and a door at the other end of the room led to a bathroom. The place was impeccably clean and brimming with the spells to keep Voldemort’s magic in check.

“You haven’t changed,” Tom said, smiling, ravenous.

“You haven’t either,” Harry replied, calmly.

“But—” and at that, there was cruelty to his words and to his expression, a delight near lustful. “Your eyes. My beautiful little Horcrux, your eyes look so sad.” Tom pressed on and Harry understood, feeling rather stupid for not noticing it sooner, that part of the reason why Voldemort wanted to see him was simply a need to compensate the lack of gratification available in his fairy tale cage. Perhaps he missed torturing, the turn of the wand as he charged the Cruciatus, as an addict misses a drug.

Stripped of his power, he still had his words. And Harry had always been his most enduring victim.

“They tell me you’re the sole remaining musketeer.”

Harry winced, but only slightly. “That’s an odd reference for you to make.”

“They only give me muggle books,” Voldemort replied, sardonic. “Was that your idea? Are you trying to cure me?”

“It was,” the boy confirmed, calmly. “Is it working?”

“No,” Tom stated. “It will take more than listening to the Beatles’ _All You Need is Love_ and reading French novels to make me respect Muggles, Harry. But I admit, I made one mistake.”

“One?”

Tom smiled, a little like the teacher he tried to be once. As if deciding to punish or allow his student’s cockiness. He chose the latter because he had missed Harry too much, the way a whip misses the skin of one’s back, the way the dark misses the moon.

“I focussed too much of my time and efforts on them. I should have known… there are finer things to conquer.”

“No,” said Harry. If he could reach the boy in the memories, the motherless pup, the bastard, he would speak to him in a lullaby. He would be kind, as people should have been to Tom Riddle.

But this was the man, and the man was painted another colour. So Harry’s voice was firm, almost authoritarian; even as he stood almost a foot taller than Harry, surrounded by a gentle cage, Voldemort was still a prisoner. As he deserved to be.

Harry should remind him of that.

“I want to make it clear to you. I won’t leave you to rot in Azkaban, but don’t think I’ve forgiven you. No one has forgiven you. There is nothing for you to conquer anymore, Tom. There will never be. Even if you change, you will ever touch a wand again. You are banished from using magic for as long as you live.”

Tom’s smile faltered. And then, as if it had been his intention all along, his hands were around Harry’s neck. It was fast, too fast. Harry had never noticed how swiftly Tom could move.

 _“Do you think I need my wand?”_ Voldemort whispered to him, in the low hiss of Parseltongue, his fingers embracing the boy’s narrow neck as he pushed him against the wall. Harry’s head hit it painfully and his pained cry was choked. The pain and the breathlessness tangled in one note of torture and confusion. _“There’s so much I can do with my bare hands.”_

There, at the distance of a kiss, Harry could see the maroon in Tom Riddle’s eyes. A most subtle touch in the midst of blueish silver, but it was there. Tom’s face tilted forward, but his expression was a puzzled one, hungry, but hesitant. They looked at each other and the song abruptly ended, as three wizards pulled Voldemort back from Harry forcefully, two of them holding him by the arms and the other by his hair.

As you were. Harry could breathe again.

“Bastard…!”

It was Halifax’s voice, followed by his fist, which hit Tom full on the stomach, making him double over and choke.

“You will never touch him again, do you understand?!” Halifax roared, but Tom was laughing breathlessly, paying him no mind. He still looked at Harry and with rough a voice, he said:

“You’re more broken than I thought, my darling. You didn’t even fight me.”

With his arms hanging on his sides as they had been during the entire assault, with his throat hurting and marked—

Harry realised that Tom was right.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes to see Tom again, after a particularly bad day at work. We’re heading for smutville now, folks. Warnings: there are some description of violence in this chapter, nothing gory but tread carefully. There’s also mention of rape (not between Harry and Tom).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! I’m sorry for taking so long to update. I hope you’ll like this next chapter, and thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! a comment can make a writer’s day and some of yours certainly made mine!

 

When the girl was found, Harry still wore the forced redness of Tom’s passion on his skin. He pulled his collar up in the morning, after tracing the marks delicately (the spell to erase them, what was it? Was there one at all? A potion perhaps?). He hoped no one would look at his neck. It would feel like a violation. This was something meant to stay between him and Tom, like the shard of his soul inside his body.

They were in the outskirts of London, in the woods. A muggle suburb was nearby, as well as some farms owned by wizards. The girl – fourteen, pureblood – was eviscerated. Not killed by the clean, neat cut of an unforgivable, but shredded chaotically by a werewolf’s teeth. Harry was glad he didn’t had breakfast that morning; he had seen worse, but it still got to him sometimes.

Her face was intact. Her name was Lydia and she too had green eyes.

“This looks like something Fenrir Greyback would do”

Sarah pointed out, her expression nauseated.

“No, Greyback left them alive. This is different.”

Harry replied, still looking at the body.

Sarah shifted, unsure, and added:

“Maybe someone from his pack? We didn’t get them all.”

“Maybe.”

They remained silent for a moment, and looked at each other at the same time, matching somber expressions. They communicated in absences, more than words. Sarah, smartest of her class, heir to a fortune, beautiful and kind and young, had left sweeter prospects to be an Auror, to stick her hands in the mud with him. Her older sister had been killed by a Death Eater. There was camaraderie between them, but he was tainted far more than her. That thought held him back whenever he wondered what would be like to kiss her lips.

Harry lifted his wand, pointed it to the corpse. Whispered the words in latin.

A small mercy that he should do this from the distance of a spell, that his hands should not touch once more what has been touched so savagely before. Spared of the muggle methods. But the horror remained the same.

He looked at Sarah and she knew before he told her.

“She was raped.”

“Before or after?”

“Before.”

The morning was high already. He had done the spell so it would fall to Sarah to communicate the news to the victim’s worried parents, which lived in a farm nearby. He would stand at the threshold, as few words chattered their life completely. He would force himself to listen to the first shocked sobs, to the tears that would follow. He would be reminded of Mrs and Mr Diggory, and of Molly too.

He closed gently the dead girl’s eyes with his fingers.

 

 

Sarah was examining the photos, consulting notes on previous cases. Harry was finishing the report: _Victim suffered vaginal trauma from sexual assault prior to death. It was assessed that the victim had been a virgin-_

“I need to clear my head for a bit.”

Harry said, standing up.

They had been working on theories for the good part of the afternoon, having skipped lunch.

“Sure.” Sarah answered. “I’ll head out for a smoke.”

“You know, those are really bad for you.”

“Thanks for reminding me, Harry.”

She said, rolling her eyes, a small smile on her lips that was mirrored by the boy. She shuffled through her things searching for the pack of Mayfairs. Wizard cigarettes, she explained one day, were terrible compared to muggle ones. Spells were added to the nicotine to lessen its sharpness and its poison, but the sharpness and the poison were the point. _Muggles are better at suicide_ , she had said, _we as wizards are just too fascinated with ourselves to do it right._

He watched her leave, sighed and then left himself, headed to the Department of Mysteries.

 

 

Halifax wasn’t there this time. It was just May, who wasn’t expecting him so soon but cheerfully took him through the routine (testing his blood and taking his wand) while updating him on Voldemort’s moods and doings on those last two days.

“He wanted you to visit yesterday, he was very upset when you didn’t come, but in general he’s been easier to deal with… I remember the first week after he woke up, it was a nightmare… he drove one of the girls hysterical by describing what he would do to her family once he got out…”

With a joyless smile on his lips, Harry nodded:

“He’s always been charming.”

Gently he touched the girl’s arm and pulled her close, lowering his voice. “May…”

She looked at him, very surprised. “Yes?”

Harry lifted a hand to his head, pushed back uselessly his hair. The scar was revealed and then covered again. He tried to sound charming. Like Tom.

“I have a favour to ask you.”

The girl smiled, eager and kind. She was the opposite of Sarah, white and pale where the other was black; plump where Sarah was thin. Both women were beautiful, and in his school days Harry would have looked at them and blushed.

“Is there a way of…giving me and him some time alone?”

May looked confused for a moment but then her eyes widened.

“Oh. Oh, no, I can’t, it’s completely against the rules-”

“So it’s possible?” Harry interrupted her.

She shifted slightly over her feet, looking troubled.

“Well, yes. The Minister did it once but he had three high ranking Aurors with him and Halifax…Honestly, Harry why would you even want that? He tried to strangle you the last time.”

“He would never go through with it. I’m too valuable for him.”

“There are infinite ways for him to hurt you without killing you. I trust his ability to be creative enough. I can’t Harry, I simply can’t.”

“Please.” The boy tried, some tiredness slipping along his voice. “I defeated him. That should count for something.”

May looked mildly offended at that, annoyed that he would use that card, but Harry knew it had worked. She put the last of her resistance in the next plea:

“Can’t you just tell him I’m not watching?”

“He’ll see right through me if I try to lie. And I have to be honest with him if I want him to be honest with me.”

“But why do you even want to be alone with him?”

“I think I can…reach him if we’re alone.” To some extent, he was being honest. He had garbed his true reasons with logical, official motives and constructed a neat theory to justify himself. He believed it, too, when he tried hard enough. “He wanted to see me. I’m his horcrux and I bested him, so I think he respects me, at least a little. But he would never allow himself to look even slightly vulnerable knowing you were watching, that’s why I’m asking for privacy. I could be wrong, of course. But I take full responsibility. All I want is one hour alone with him.”

 

 

May was still muttering _Halifax will kill me if he finds out_ when she lifted her wand silenced and blinded the water mirror. Its shimmering waters became just that, water. The prisoner was erased from sight.

As Harry entered, she warned:

“You have one hour.”

 

 

There was music in the room this time, bittersweet violins along the softer notes of the air instruments whose names Harry knew not. For a moment the boy didn’t know where the music came from – but he located an old gramophone where a dark vinyl gently rotated. Voldemort had his back to him – he was sitting in a chair next to his desk. Harry pictured the wizard examining the records, choosing one, grateful for one lost, inadmissible moment for that beautiful muggle music.

“Rachmaninoff,” Voldemort explained, without turning. “Symphony n.2.”

“Isn’t that too romantic for you?”

Harry replied, not moving yet, his back pressed to the place where a door should be, his heart a hummingbird, as if he was in love.

“I’m not immune to beauty, Harry.” He was amused now, turning to his horcrux, his hunger not lessened at all. “The Russians have a way of making sadness sound sublime, don’t you think? This piece reminds me of you.”

He looked at Harry, so intently, so intensely and indiscreet as if he never bothered to learn shame. This time Harry sustained the gaze even if his own cheeks reddened slightly. It was a strange thing, even with everything that had passed between them, to be examined as a feast, as a treasure, as the rare wine within a chalice.

“I came alone today. Under oath. No one is watching.”

When Tom said nothing, Harry carried on: 

“Halifax isn’t in today. I convinced May to let me see you alone.”

Tom pondered for a moment, then asked:

“For how long?”

“One hour.”

“That’s plenty of time,” Tom said and moved, unfolding, and everything about him reminded Harry of a feline waking up, stretching, warming up for the hunt. Like the lions he saw on the zoo with the Dursleys, a lifetime ago. Nowhere to run and yet all that potential for killing remained there, static, unused. Not the snake of his lineage but a Gryffindor’s Lion, that’s what Voldemort echoed as he got up and cornered Harry against his own chosen trap. “for me to hurt you, Harry.”

 _Hopefully_ , Harry thought.

“That’s all you think about? Causing pain?” Harry asked, calmly.

“You did make it very tempting, my little Horcrux.”

The boy looked at the Dark Lord’s handsome face with an expression close to disapproval that began to dissipate as his hand reached for Voldemort’s. His mind was getting comfortably lulled now, focused. He knew what he wanted and for the first time in years it was something he could reach, as fleeting and abstract as it was. He lifted gently Tom’s heavy arm, feeling the muscle beneath the fabric and wondered, almost smiling, if the Dark Lord was doing push ups in prison like a common muggle gangster in a movie. He wondered too why wasn’t he being stopped, why was Tom accepting the handling of his limb so passively. Maybe he was curious. They had that in common.

He guided that hand to its place of two days ago, to embrace his neck like a ribbon, like a collar. He made a tiny sound when Tom’s fingers pressed against his skin, a precious note that could be lost if not for Voldemort’s absolute silence. Religious, almost. As if a mass was to begin, as if in Harry he would learn again to pray.

The boy looked up, pleadingly. Tom looked entranced. Deeply fascinated.

He tightened the grasp around the boy’s neck and Harry choked out a breathless moan. They stayed that way for a few moments more, and then Tom let him go. He was the first to speak:

“Why?”

Harry was redder than before, still fighting for air, and feeling needy for the pain that had just left him. His cock was half-hard inside his pants and, although it embarrassed him greatly, he was prepared for that side-effect.

“I want it. I deserve it.” He looked up at Tom, pretty and helpless, begging almost. “And you... like to cause pain don’t you? You need to but now you can’t… but if it’s me than it’s ok. You’d never go too far with me and…and…”

_Too far_

As if they were not there already.

Tom contemplated him for a moment and then laughed something cruel, and held Harry’s wrists above his head with one single hand.

“You hopeless creature. My poor, pitiful sunlight. You want to pay with pain for your life?” His other hand went down, and pressed against the boy’s crotch. “It has nothing to do with this, slut?”

 _Slut_. The word felt sharper on his lips. A silver knife. It took Harry’s breath away, like a kiss. He had never called that. His cock reacted to the word, a wisp of something almost pavlovian, and got fully hard.

Whereas before he had stumbled on his words, crimson on the cheeks and guilty like a schoolboy, now he was firmer, looking at Tom without flinching.

“Are you saying no?”

Tom seemed to falter, surprised for a moment before smiling. There was a tress of respect in his expression, so faint that it could be completely unconscious, like on the day he had been defeated. Something in him that was glad that Harry was his foe, that Harry could still astonish him when no else did.

He let go of Harry’s wrists. Brought a pale finger to the boy’s lips and touched their plumpness. Harry opened his mouth slightly, letting the digit slip inside. He had never done anything like this, clothed still and yet painfully erotic. And never with a man, either. But his lips closed around Tom’s finger and he sucked softly, as if guided by some distant, ancestral knowledge. Another finger followed suit and with two in his mouth, Harry felt the earliest tang of breathlessness. His mind quieted to all that wasn’t this, as if submerged in dark, nighttime waters.

He didn’t notice he had closes his eyes until Tom took out his fingers and lifted his chin, smearing his own saliva on his skin.

“Do you have any idea of what you’re asking? Of what you’re offering?”

Harry blinked slowly and opened his mouth before the words were ready. But they came, merciless. Tom didn’t flinch because he wore well the skin of the beast.

“Does it really matter?”

“I prefer them willing.”

The Dark Lord replied.

“I am very willing.”

Harry said then, with such youthful panache, so sure of himself, so eager, that Voldemort almost laughed. A smile on his lips, the kindest one yet, was the slip of his self control. This boy, he remembered, a flash of red zig-zagging tombstones. This boy, looking at him with wide green eyes, his chubby, baby hands reaching for his wand as if it was a toy. This boy, broken down and still victorious.

This boy that kept gazing at him beneath his eyelashes as Tom unzipped his jeans and slipped a hand inside.

Harry blushed deeply and moaned. Tom’s hand curled around his cock and as he began to stroke Harry tried to look away. But Voldemort grabbed him by the hair and ordered:

“Keep looking at me.”

The young auror made a sound of distress but rolled his hips diligently. Tom stroked him with a lazy sort of roughness, letting his thumb caress the gland and the shell of his fist to drag against the shaft in a tight grip. Not common this was, for him. He usually favoured girls. But he was outstanding at this as he was in most things and the boy was panting and moaning lovely before long. And Harry was such a pretty thing. His pretty thing.

Voldemort didn’t kiss him, not once, but he touched Harry’s ear with his lips and pressed the words so intimately as if he was speaking directly to his mind. While Harry bucked against his hand and grasped at his shirt, touch-starved since touch first became a rare commodity, Voldemort told him what they would do, what he expected of Harry, how he was to behave himself the next time he came to visit. His voice sounded clear even in the haze of pleasure, and Harry didn’t miss any of the spells he was ordered to use, nor the items he was to smuggle in. When he came, spilling against Tom’s hand, he almost sobbed. It wasn’t just the orgasm, it was the plans Tom had for his body. It was the relief, knowing he could be a good boy again.

When the hour was up Harry left the cage and looked back once, as the waters hid Tom Riddle once more. Tom was smiling.

May examined him rather nervously, searching for any possible damage, but found none. His neck was red still but had been so when he came in.

Harry felt drugged the rest of the day; a lingering, sweet high. And in his sleep that night he had no nightmares.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait! At least this chapter is way longer than the previous ones and Tom and Harry finally get on with it. So I hope I can be forgiven. There's spanking and dirty talking and the daddy kink makes an appearance, I hope you like it! Edit: I accidentally deleted the chapter and now I'm reposting it. Thank you for the lovely people who left comments, I'm really sorry about my clumsiness!

 

                              After—

 

He laid in the bed, gathering his words, trying to string them together to describe to his own mind what just had passed. It was only here, in his own room, in some ungodly, after-midnight hour, that Harry allowed himself to feel that youthful awe again.

After Tom made good on his promise.

Harry’s fingers were wrapped around an apple and he had forgotten how hunger could feel, how righteous it could be, how natural and therefore pure – hunger as a consequence of pleasure, of joy. He bit into the apple – a green one, a skein of bitterness to its sweet – chest heaving, eyes looking at his bedroom ceiling, not really seeing.

It was dangerous, that _awe_. It felt too close to passion. To the first, aching notes of falling in love.

He sat up slowly, still munching on the fruit. His body was battered, bruised and he loved to inhabit its wound.

Voldemort had made him _feel_ , after seven years of numbness. _Of course_ he was a little in love.

He finished eating his apple and got ready to go to sleep, all the while bearing a smile _. It would fade_ , he told himself. He was in no real danger because no love could sustain itself on lust alone. He would be starry-eyed for a while, a puppy dog shaking its tail, and then he would be reminded of what an awful bastard Tom really was and the song would stop, there would be only flesh. And, one day not even that.

He would be fine.

 

 

A waste, it seemed, to sleep these days, having spent the best part of the last seven years doing so. He should spend every minute fortifying his mind. But for what? His greatness was reduced to that square, to the eager eyes of lesser wizards and witches, to that fucking piano. He could know all those books by heart and play all the most beautiful pieces and accomplish nothing more than the role of a monkey in a cage.

Tom used to throw tantrums in order to entice a response, an _armoured_ response, in the beginning. _Come on, fuckers_ he thought, shirtless in the midst of chaos, ripping apart books and destroying shelves, _come here. Try to subdue me with your wands._

It didn’t work. They never approached him with magic. It took three, four, five of them sometimes but they seized him with their arms. They knocked him out with some tranquillizer. He was treated like a very vicious, very interesting dog.

When the Minister came to see him – not meet him, but _see_ him as one would a beast in a zoo – he had started his second campaign: for hours he described aloud in careful detail what he would do to the families of those keeping him there, how dexterously he would pull bone from muscle and nails from fingers and teeth from mouths and heads from shoulders.

Halifax had punished him for that, for the embarrassment of showing his superior not a pet, obedient Dark Lord, but a viper, still spitting poison.

“If you act like an animal I will treat you accordingly,” the wizard said, stripping Tom’s cell of all but its bathroom, leaving him to empty walls and the cold floor.

It took two months of this until he resorted, finally, to the greatest of his skills.

He had chewed on his pride for too long now.

“May,” he would say, lean like a leaf but handsome still, his spine a thread of stones on his back, his voice a thing made of silk, of water, a smile lazily hanging from his lips as if he was flirting with her somewhere sunny, “May, _my sweet_ , would you be a darling and bring me a book? Just a book. And an apple perhaps. I miss eating fruit, the bread is so stale, it reminds me…” there, the final touch, a subtle tremble to his lips because he knew she was watching, and some forged vulnerability to his words: “…of the orphanage.”

And if she alone was watching him, she would come. Tom started to keep mental notes of the shifts, of the frequency of Halifax’s visits, of their regularity; to write in blood on the wall the course of his days.

May was far too good to be handling this job, one of the few, he came to learn, invested in the idea of _curing_ him. She was _kind_.

“Thank you,” he would tell her, letting his hand touch hers as she smuggled him a treat. “You’re an angel, May.”

She smiled sheepishly.

“That won’t work on me, you know,” she would say.

But it already had.

 _“You look so beautiful today, May,”_ and _“Is there a lucky lad waiting you at home? Or a lady, I wouldn’t want to presume,”_ were some of the phrases he used on her.

She saw through the ruse, of course, but thought that the effort he put on the ruse itself was progress already. That one can pretend to be good, and thus become in the process.

Some weeks later, the real negotiations started.

Voldemort knew it wasn’t Harry’s mercy that was keeping him in this relatively luxurious prison, that although the Minister had granted this one wish to the Chosen One, they had their own agenda.

Halifax loved to rub it in his face, to tell him that, if it wasn’t for Harry’s _kindness,_ Tom would so far beneath the ground that it would take days to find his bones, but Voldemort knew the truth. And the truth was confirmed when Halifax restored the bed of his cell, and the majority of the books, and feed him food that was warm.

While the Dark Lord ate, Halifax watched him.

“We know you’ve created a great number of spells, during your years of…well, during your life,” the wizard started, in what he thought was a casual tone.

Tom said nothing, just broke more bread and soaked it in the meat’s gravy, manners be damned. He didn’t bother with impressing rich _Lords_ like Halifax anymore.

“The Minister has shown a lot of interest in learning some of these spells, for research sake,” Halifax continued. “He has allowed me to trade with you. Some privileges, in order to make your life here more _pleasant_ , in exchange for the knowledge you have.”

A few moments passed; Tom drank from the cup of wine and recited:

_“O, for a draught of vintage,”_

Halifax straightened himself in his chair, looking almost offended. An amusing man he was, Tom thought, not unattractive, not at all, but lesser than him in all aspects – and probably knowing so. It wouldn’t do to seduce _him,_ Tom knew, although it could be arranged. But the mere suggestion of it would offend Halifax too much, he liked to think himself above that murderer’s charms.

“I beg your pardon?” Halifax said; so British in his words, so posh, not begging for anything, not really, although Tom would love to make him.

Outside, on a wondrous, glorious day, Tom would kill Halifax slowly.

“Wine, Halifax,” Tom explained, impatient; like he would to a death eater. “Real wine. Not this trash you brought me. A good port, for starters.”

Offense gave way to relief on Halifax’ expression. Tom wanted to laugh. _Do you really think I’ll be bought that cheaply?_

“I’ll see what I can do—”

“I want Harry, too,” Tom added, interrupting him.

“You—what?”

Halifax looked at him again.

“You heard me. I want my Horcrux. If you idiots in the Ministry think you have enough power to master what I’ve created – _oh yes_ , because I’m not a fool, Halifax, you don’t want my spells for research, you want them for their _might_ – I’ll teach them to you, but in exchange I want what is mine. I want him, every day of the week for at least one hour.”

The other wizard was pale, but recovered rather quickly, “You’re mad. Do you really think I’ll let you… _you,_ who tried to kill him countless times—”

“For fuck’s sake, you git, you’re smarter than that. I would never harm Harry. He’s mine.”

Oh, how Halifax hated him.

 “Once a week. Half an hour,” Halifax bargained, the words funnelled by the angry, tight grip of his lips.

“Thrice a week, two hours each,” Tom countered.

“Twice a week. One and a half hours.”

“Agreed,” Voldemort conceded, smiling at last.

 

 

 

                                      And then, well, Harry.

 

 _You haven’t changed_.

 

A lie. He did change. Became, perhaps, even sweeter to look upon. Like the sudden appearance of the sun when London was at its cloudiest. But, that could be just Tom’s perception which had changed too. When he first looked at the boy all those years ago he didn’t know how valuable he was, so his beauty was of little consequence.

 

(Tom had thought to make like an old pagan and eat Harry’s heart, but he always had been without religion and now he longed to devour the boy in a different way altogether.)

 

That afternoon Harry came to him already blushing. Not much, it’s true, but just enough to pink a little the flesh of his cheeks; just enough so Tom could tell that he wasn’t backing out of this, that he had followed his instructions to the letter.

 

Tom was sitting on the bed, watching, “How long do we have?”

 

“Two hours, if I press my luck,” Harry answered, and then added: “Will that be enough?”

 

“For everything I want to do to you? Not at all. But we’ll make do,” Voldemort replied.

 

 

 

 

At that Harry’s blush deepened and he stood still across the room, behind the invisible line he had drawn between Tom and him; the line that once crossed would be forever eroded, a border that ceases to exist when two cities, or two countries, merge together.

 

He could have stayed forever behind that line. It would be immensely easier that way.

 

But Tom commanded: _come here_ and Harry went.

 

“Sit on my lap. Facing me,” Tom said next.

 

Harry did, his knees touching Tom’s hips. Like this he was taller, but not by much. He allowed himself to hide his face against Voldemort’s shoulder, and felt Voldemort’s hands touching the extent of his torso, softly for now, as if he was checking for broken bones. It felt less lustful than it should, like the embrace of a parent and Harry ached even more because of it. He bit his lip and made himself not melt, not give everything away for so little. It was unexpected, that’s all, that Voldemort could touch so gently.

 

Finally, Tom’s hands came to rest against the softer flesh of his Horcrux’s ass. Harry’s hand grasped around the fabric of his shirt.

 

“I’ve never done this before. With a man,” he murmured.

 

Tom chuckled, “I know. I can tell just by looking at you.”

 

“No you can’t,” Harry let go of Voldemort’s shirt and looked at him, a crease between his eyebrows. “You’re just trying to sound more clever than you are.”

 

“Is that so?” countered Voldemort, smiling.

 

“Anyway, can you just—” _touch me. Get on with it_. “I mean, we don’t have all the time in the world.”

 

“How eager,” Voldemort chastised, but his hands gripped Harry’s ass tighter. “Don’t you want a kiss first?”

 

It took a while for the boy to nod and then, annoyed, murmur a _yes_ when Tom didn’t move. He was thinking that decades ago, some girl – or boy – had sat on this man’s lap as well and looked at his smirk, at the flare of silver in his blues and realised that they could not deny him, even if it cost them. He thought: _I am just like they are, those stupid, nameless girls and boys._

 

 

As for Tom, his eyes were fixed on the movement of Harry’s lips – the subtle parting, one lip sliding across the other as if the boy had just sighed. He was wondering if Harry could tell that he was getting hard just by that.

 

 

They kissed. Tom’s hands wrapped around the boy’s waist making him arch like a rehearsal of a future, horizontal position. Harry moaned when his mouth opened itself to be devoured. He chased Tom’s tongue, touched it with his own, had his lower lip pulled between the Dark Lord’s teeth, took short breaths because Tom kept kissing him, and kissing him until there was nothing left but the places where Tom and him where entwined.

 

Voldemort parted from him, and Harry sought his lips one more time, jerking forward. He felt like a teenager, but Voldemort didn’t even look out of breath.

 

“Get up. Strip.” Voldemort ordered.

 

Harry did as he was told, unbuttoning his shirt hastily, unbuckling his belt, too turned on to be embarrassed getting naked. His body didn’t feel _his_ enough to hide. Voldemort’s soul had made a home in his flesh and he felt – as if this too was written in the prophecy - there was not much left to bare.

 

Voldemort kept watching him, not looking way, not even for a moment.

 

“I should have an honorific. You’ll call me Daddy.”

 

Harry halted just as he was pushing down his underwear. Something heated coiled within, something he would only acknowledge as disgust even though it wasn’t.

 

“You’re joking.”

 

 

“Am I?” Voldemort’s eyes narrowed. His tone was sharp.

 

He pulled the boy by the wrist, made him fall on his lap and arranged him over his knees, bottom up.

Harry didn’t fight it. He shivered slightly when Voldemort traced his naked back, from between his shoulder blades to his coccyx, the sinew of his spine. When that hand rested against his ass, Harry bit his lip.

 

“What about you?”

 

Voldemort paused. “What about me?”

 

Harry swallowed, “Is this your first time too?”

 

“No,” Tom answered, indulging his Horcrux. Perhaps, to Harry, this question meant a form of camaraderie between them. _You were once untouched as I am untouched, doesn’t that make us equals? If you were nervous as I am, just a little, can it be that you are as human as me, Tom?_

 

Perhaps. Or maybe he was just stalling for time, as a boy who had never been fucked and didn’t know what to expect, would.

 

“I’ve had boys before,” he told Harry. “But none as beautiful as you.”

 

The tips of the boy’s ears reddened at that, but he seemed to relax, like a cat going limp, soft, closing its eyes, right before the purr began in its throat.

 

Tom grabbed a handful of Harry’s ass, spreading his cheeks for a moment, a glimpse of where the boy was pink and lovely and still sacred. His cock was painfully hard inside his pants although nothing had happened yet, as if he was, in fact, as virginal as the boy. _None as beautiful as you._ It was true. A small catalogue of boys: the ones in Hogwarts, eager and guilty and pretty, all believing themselves hell-bound; sodomy a secret that Tom could use against them. Men, in Tom’s later years, scattered among the many women. Men who Tom enjoyed dominating, whose names he’d forget first thing in the morning… if they had names at all. Pure-bloods, men and women, who looked at Tom and saw a divinity earthly enough for their beds. Pure-bloods who wanted the thrill, their eyes lighting up, for they coveted Tom as the very thing money couldn’t buy, whispering and leaving jealous others in their cast: _the Dark Lord had me twice. He fucks like a stallion._

Lucius, once, when he was young, unmarried and delicate like a French prince.

 

And all paled, even the women; as if his cock was wired to this skinny kid alone.

 

“I’m going to spank you,” Voldemort said. “You’ll count the strokes aloud and thank me for each one, is that clear?”

 

“Yes,” Harry whispered. Tom could feel the boy’s erection against his legs. He allowed that trespass – the lacking of his title in Harry’s answer – for now.

 

 

(Unbeknownst to Tom, this could never evoke in Harry the barren years of his childhood. Uncle Vernon never bent him over his knee. There was pain, and hands that touched him too roughly, too uncaring of what they handled, but most of the punishments were of a colder sort. A weak feeling his own stomach devouring itself, eyes that looked at him as if a child could be made of filth, the absence, the constant absence of everything that could be called a home.)

 

 

Tom raised his hand and brought it down. There was a yelp and a pause, as Harry skipped a beat before his answer. His voice came out breathless:

 

_One. Thank you._

Again, the slap now harder, the boy’s ass reddening.

 

_Two. Thank you._

 

A moan. Harry squirmed in his lap but didn’t try to evade the blows, merely sought to alleviate his own arousal. Tom made a mental note to correct that further on, to shape Harry into a better pet.

 

 _Three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine_.

 

A prayer made of a single hymn as if Harry was repenting over a rosary. His voice became fervent and dreamy and Tom too was entranced, barely feeling the ache in his hand, as if Harry had taken that pain to himself as well.

 

When they were done, almost thirty _thank yous_ later, and Voldemort turned Harry in his lap so he could face him, the boy gazed at him drunkenly; like he’d found communion in his touch. In that moment, Tom knew he could ask anything of Harry and receive it. _My darling will you let me eat your heart?_ Harry would pry open his own chest and break the cage of his ribs to allow Tom’s hand inside.

 

Looking back Tom would remember this moment clearly, how even though there was something larger at play here he had no wish to defile the trust that boy had put upon him.

 

He pulled the boy up like a bride in his arms, getting up himself just to neatly lay Harry on the bed. His little Horcrux reached out to him, raising his body a bit.

 

“Tom,” he pleaded, aching for a kiss, for a hand on his cock.

 

Voldemort smiled something dark. He caged the boy with his body, carefully not letting their skin touch.

 

“Not Tom. You know what to call me.”

 

Harry whined.

 

“Daddy,” the boy whimpered then, tasting the new flavour to the word, letting it taint. Was it worse, saying it to the killer of its original bearer? But he couldn’t disobey; tears welled in his green eyes.

 

 _“Daddy!”_ his cock was harder than it had ever been. It felt good, so good and perverse, like submitting to the Imperius curse.

 

Voldemort laughed. His teeth were very white. A shark that had just smelled blood in the water. He kissed Harry again, on the mouth, against the shell of his ear, down his slender neck. He pressed his clothed body against Harry’s naked skin. Larger than the boy in every way. He curled a hand around the boy’s cock at the same time his mouth sucked on a nipple.

 

“Please—” Harry moaned, bucking up.

 

“Look at me,” Voldemort ordered. Harry did, blushing as if only under Tom’s eyes his shame was true. “Pretty thing. Do you have any idea how much I want to fuck you? Spread your legs. Show me your cunt.”

 

Harry’s eyes widened at that, Tom chuckled. The boy looked scandalised.

 

“That’s not...It’s not...” his Horcrux babbled. “You shouldn’t call it—”

 

“It belongs to me now,” Voldemort interrupted him. “I may call it whatever I want.”

 

Harry closed his eyes again. He bent his knees, brought his thighs close to his chest, pulled back the soft, pink flesh of his scrotum. His legs trembled, the position difficult to sustain, and his pale fingers spread his asscheeks, presenting his hole like a peach, unripe.

 

“Harry...” Tom murmured, pressing a thumb against the boy’s ass, feeling it contract beneath his touch. “Good boy. You obeyed me, didn’t you?”

 

 

“Yes, Daddy,” Harry whispered, a warm filthy feeling like syrup, like some forbidden honey, when his _Daddy_ called him a good boy, and when he remembered exactly what his obedience ensued. The spell Tom told him to use made him hairless, smooth and clean down there, pretty and welcoming. He remembered looking at himself in the mirror, pressing a finger against his hole, feeling his cock stir.

 

“Did you manage to bring what I asked?” Tom carried on, not taking his eyes off Harry’s entrance, rubbing it with his thumb to make the boy mewl.

 

“I did, yeah. It’s in one of the pockets of my jeans,” Harry answered, toes curling, the pleasure too mild to be anything but teasing. He whined when Tom moved back and left the bed, propping himself on his elbows and resting his feet on the bed to watch him. Tom had already found the small sachet of lubricant Harry had smuggled in and was throwing it between the boy’s spread legs.

 

Then Tom began to undress, not slowly, not teasingly, but just leisurely enough so Harry could appreciate his nakedness. He was a proper bearer of the word handsome – a word that Harry could never claim for himself. He was – Harry’s mouth watered with familiar thirst because he knew what was like to ache for a man, he had since he was fourteen and both girls and boys seemed desirable to him – sharp lines, slender legs like a statue of the old, as he if could be marble too. His chest ended in a defined _v_ of the pelvis, he had a scar across his ribs on the left side beneath his heart.

 

 _What happened there?_ Harry wanted to ask, but then Tom took off his pants and – oh. Harry felt his asshole twitch at the sight, at the thought of all of _that_ fitting inside. Tom’s cock was big, huge even, its gland standing red and proud while Tom looked at him.

 

In the midst of fear, of arousal tainted by a need for pain, there was in Harry a thrill too: that he was responsible for the filling of that flesh with blood, for the erection facing him like an arrow. That his body of bird bones and hair of raven feathers could stir Tom as much as Tom stirred him.

 

 

And Voldemort, seeing Harry’s mind so clearly in his expression – that maiden-like distress and the wantonness of a slut – felt a rush of bloody tenderness, a desire to kill the boy and hold him at the same time. To whisper sweet things against his ear while pulling out his organs. He joined the boy in the bed, covered his body with his own. They were so different in size. He shielded Harry completely, like a long shadow in the evening. And Harry was pretty in a way certain boys are when they look like girls.

 

The Horcrux wrapped a hand tentatively around Tom’s cock.

 

“It’s so big,” Harry whispered against Tom’s lips.

 

“Are you scared?” Voldemort asked.

 

“No,” The boy answered, too fast. He hesitated and then added: “Yes. A bit. But I want it to hurt.”

 

 

Tom ripped open the sachet and coated two of his fingers with lube, and Harry spread further his legs, making room for him. Tom’s fingers were cold when they breached him, and there was yet to be pain like he wanted. This was just discomfort and something else, a pull of warmth, a first note of pleasure. This – the fingering – he had tried before, by his own hand, somewhere back in time. But Tom’s fingers reached deeper than he ever could and Harry was moaning and pushing back against the touch in no time.

 

Again they kissed. _Pretty thing. Pretty thing, all mine, all mine,_ Voldemort whispered into his mind, such was their magic that no other wizard could touch. _It was you that I longed for. To drink from you again, to fuck you as I did in dreams. Rip you open, my darling_ (rip me open, my darling).   _And build for myself a home in your bones._ Harry whimpered softly. Some of those thoughts were his. Maybe because their foreheads were so close and in the darkness of the kiss their edges were blurred like ink, like tears in the rain. Tom was pressing his cock against his ass and Harry was crying out.

 

Voldemort let out a breath, halfway in. He licked one of the boy’s tears, pushed back his black hair so he could kiss his scar.

 

“Don’t stop,” Harry begged, opening his eyes and looking at Tom. “Please, don’t stop.”

 

 

The boy’s arms were wrapped around Tom’s neck, his legs around his waist, urging him on. Voldemort obliged, groaning. There would be blood after; the boy was such a tight fit. He held his Horcrux’s chin, nibbled at his lip. Saw the fluttering of his wet eyelashes, felt the hard cock rubbing against his stomach, the pain doing nothing to diminish the boy’s arousal.

 

 _My little pain slut,_ Voldemort thought, affectionately, to which Harry chuckled: _You’re my first, Daddy. How can I be a slut?_ The boy raised himself a bit, pressed his trembling lips against Voldemort’s ear:

 

“Make me into one,” he said, with that same cockiness from before, the cockiness from the fighting days, “Make me into your slut, Daddy.”

 

Voldemort groaned at that, had to bite his lip, the orgasm dangerously close. Just that, just that little virgin’s attempt at dirty talking, just that and the tightness around his cock, grabbing onto him like a vice. _Make me into your slut._ Like his touch was that tainted and under his hands, the boy would forget how to blush. This boy, who Tom could so easily picture in awe at the sight of a girl’s breasts, this boy who would worship a woman for hours before reaching for his prick, asking, _this, do you like this? Can I touch you here?_ This boy who until then had only known how to make love.

 

He grabbed Harry’s hips and began to fuck him hard.

 

Harry’s mewls went high, half smeared with pleasure as Tom hit his prostate with every thrust. It felt good to be an animal again. Tom was flesh like any man and in that prison, he had only his hand and the memory of all lovers that soon melted into Harry. He’d fuck the boy and then kill him – that was how his fantasies would go. Or maybe Harry would be the one doing the killing. It was hard to tell when he reached his peak. Sex was a chaotic realm in itself so those whims were allowed. And Tom had never become self-aware enough to be too bothered by the strange things his mind could come up with.

 

 _“Is this what you wanted?”_ Voldemort said, biting Harry above his collarbone, pounding into him. “Is it?”

 

“Yes,” the boy whined. “Yes, yes,” again and again.

 

Tom pulled Harry up, felt the sides of his knees against his ribs, sat up with the boy in his lap, a pause, a breath before they resumed. Harry moved up and down, perpetually speared, perpetually seeking the blade in which he was impaled. His Horcrux’s arms around his neck, a flash of his smile, the brief sound of his laughter like an old song. He whispered, or thought he did, the pull of a smile on his own lips: _why are you laughing? Am I not being rough enough?_ He pushed the boy back down onto the mattress because that simply wouldn’t do.

 

“Touch yourself. I want to see you come,” Tom ordered; as he was bending Harry in half, holding him by the paleness of his thigh, one hand around the base of his own cock guiding it back inside. He had been searching for the expression the boy had now, as he fisted his cock while Tom fucked him; the face of saints painted before, his bright green eyes and the pink mouth wrapped around a sigh of wonder, all that filthy holiness, all that _gratitude. Thank you_ , his beautiful boy seemed to say, closing his eyes, moaning and coming in pearly stripes against his taut stomach, _thank you for setting my body alight._

 

Voldemort moaned a choked, bitten thing, and slipped out of that tight heat, moved upwards, the tip of his cock grazing against the skin of Harry’s chest where the bones were so close to the surface they moved like a shadow behind a veil.

 

Now that Harry had come, Tom gave himself permission to be vulnerable, to chase fast his own completion. It took no more than a few jerks from his wrist, his hand wrapped around his erection, and he closed his eyes only at the very end, sealing within the boy’s expression, the blush, the dirtiness of a tongue that dared to seek the taste of another man’s come, the eyes green like death.

 

When he looked at Harry again the boy was panting as much as he, gathering come from the pool on his chest with his fingers, lifting the fingers to his mouth. Voldemort whimpered and fell to the side, his body almost too long for that small bed, Harry and him laying side by side with no inch to spare.

 

“Try and use an extension charm on your pockets next time,” Tom said, breaking the silence after a few moments.

 

Harry groaned, annoyed, turning to lie on his stomach.

 

“You’re so predictable. I knew you would ask me something like this. You think just because I let you fuck me I’m gonna smuggle a wand for you? An AK-47 perhaps?”

 

Tom chuckled at that, raising his hand in the air and said:

 

“First of all, the last thing I am is predictable. Second, we shall need more lube next time, along with other items too big to fit in your pockets. And third, what the fuck is an AK-47?”

 

It was Harry’s turn to laugh.

 

“It’s a— nevermind. But I know you’re hoping to gain more out of this than just my pretty arse.”

 

“That’s true. But I wasn’t hoping you’d help me break out after just one day. I was going to build up to that. For now, however, I am content enough with your _pretty arse_.” 

 

At that Harry turned a little to look at Tom from beneath his eyelashes, his arm hiding a smile. Tom was smiling too. He let his hand wander down and caress the reddened flesh of Harry’s rear.

 

“It is a very pretty arse.” Tom offered, one finger slipping between his asscheeks, touching the sore entrance. He was turning, already bending down for a kiss, his cock sympathetic to the idea of taking the boy again… but Harry stopped him, pulling away from his hand.

 

“We don’t have a lot of time left,” the Horcrux whispered. “I should be, hm, saving your soul.”

 

“Saving my soul?”

 

“That’s what I told them I would be doing.” Harry explained.

 

“And how do you reckon you’ll do that?” Tom asked.

 

“Well, certainly not by having sex with you--” The boy raised himself a little and looked at the clock on the opposite wall over the small piano. He sighed. “I have to leave in half an hour.”

 

At that

 

\--

 

Tom’s chest felt caked with ice. Harry was looking away, a worried glint in his eyes, a furrowing of his eyebrows.

 

_Don’t leave._

 

Tom thought with the inner voice of a child. The reminder of the outside world, and all the hours Harry would spend there, more painful than he expected. For the last ninety minutes he’d forgotten he was a prisoner.

 

He pulled Harry by the waist, trapping him against the mattress.

 

“Tom…!”

 

“Let me have you again.” Voldemort asked, pressing kisses to the place amid Harry’s shoulder blades. _Please_ was a word forsaken by his mouth for the last decades but it grazed his lips, it almost returned to him like a childhood fear. His dark hair caressed the boy’s back. He wished fervently for Harry to say yes. “My little Horcrux…”

 

“Why do you call me that?”  Harry asked, softly.

 

“Because that’s what you are.” Tom answered, surprised. “Would you rather I call you something mundane, like _baby_ or _sweetheart?_ ”

 

“Isn’t _daddy_ cliché too?” Harry pointed out.

 

Tom chuckled.

 

“But I like hearing you say it.” He told Harry, simply.

 

It took the boy a moment.

 

“Alright.” Harry agreed, turning just a little to his side so he could look at Voldemort. His blushing was faint. “Be quick about it, Daddy.” He pulled Tom’s hand to his lips and kissed his knuckles.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to @nocturnememory for the beta <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for taking so long for posting this chapter! I'll try not to take freaking six months to post the next one. I'm messy and gay but I'll try to be less messy. Thank you everyone who left kudos and comments!
> 
> This chapter contains: Harry in lingerie, spanking with a belt, rimming, Voldemort's pov. I hope you like it, and again, sorry for the delay.

  


  


Of all things missed, rain was the rawest.

If London had a fingerprint that would be it. Though the city of his childhood had fed him bitter bread, it was still his.

He came back.

Years away, learning more polished verbs; tasting magic older than Britain. Spells written in Mandarin, in Devanagari, in Cyrillic.

Un-burying sleeping gods.

But he came back, after stealing from other cultures; British as he was to the very last bone in his body.

He experienced, then, on that day in the early years of the 1960s, such a violent sentimentality towards those familiar streets that his whole face reddened with embarrassment.

 _Get a grip, man._ Tom had told himself, as he walked through Westminster, letting the rain soak his hair, his coat. _Or did you think old England would disappear if you weren’t looking?_

One day, in the prison he was in, Tom stood beneath a cold shower and closed his eyes, trying to emulate on his skin the feeling of London’s rain. But he had no talent for that sort of pretend, so the experience fell short – and he felt very foolish after. Longing wasn’t something he was used to. His most primordial needs had been denied so he had a long experience of aborting such feelings when they came to.

Pressing a firm hand to one’s own throat, letting a cry die before existing. Turning into rage or lust whatever he failed to hold back.

And now, now…

It was a prison cell.

Now it was Ella Fitzgerald singing, velvety-sweet, as if her very throat was honey:

 _Though I’m in love, I’m not above, a date with a duke or a caddie, it’s just a pose, cause my baby knows_  
_that my heart belongs to daddy…_

She hit the lower notes like a naughty girl explaining herself shamelessly. Her voice immortal, rotating on the gramophone. It was early morning, and the room, painted a gentle bright by artificial sunbeams, could almost pass as one harbouring a free man.

Tom was done with his morning exercises and was sitting on the floor, munching a pear and reading. From time to time he would look at the clock, and then back to the book. So still and calm and handsome, looking cured, well-behaved.

May found him like this. He always wore his best persona for her.

“Good morning, Tom,” she greeted, stepping into the room, carrying a basket.

“Hello, May,” he replied, with a smile, standing up. “Can I help you? That looks rather heavy.”

“It’s alright,” she answered, putting down the basket on his bed. “What are you listening to?” She asked, already searching through the basket.

“Ella Fitzgerald. You’re probably too young to know her.”

“I’ve heard of her. She was a muggle, wasn’t she?”

“Yes. I was fortunate enough to watch her live, when I went to America.”

“I keep forgetting you’re much older than you look like.” May turned to him, holding a few items on her hands. She was radiant today, her red curls cut a little shorter, her round, heart-shaped face alight with some secret joy. “Still, it’s hard to imagine you in a muggle club. What were you doing there?”

“Picking up girls,” Tom answered, making her chuckle. “Wizards are shite at music, too. Everything good composed in the last two hundred years came from muggles.”

“Does it hurt you to admit that?” she teased.

“Not as much as you would think,” he smirked. “So, what did you bring me?”

“The Prophet, chocolate, pepper, marzipan, earl grey, _this_ …” She blushed a bit as she handed him the last item, a wizard magazine showing a very bare, very blonde woman on its cover, winking at them. “And a tablet.”

“What’s a tablet?” Tom asked distractedly, his eyes lingering on the magazine before he put it down on his bed.

“It’s… well, it’s like a computer, but smaller, with no keyboard. You won’t be able to do much with it, but at least you can watch movies. I storage a few in it.”

Tom examined it curiously, a dark, shiny rectangle, before he pressed a button on the side and watched the screen light up.

“I can watch movies in this?”

“Yes. Pre-selected ones. Halifax— er, we think it’s best for you not to have access to anything too violent or graphic, so it’s mostly cartoons.”

“Cartoons,” Tom repeated, amused.

“You said you were bored,” May defended herself, blushing a little. “This is the best I could do.”

Tom gazed at her, tall and beautiful and charming like the devil. “Thank you, May. For this and for smuggling everything else. If it wasn’t for you my life here would be much duller.”

“Oh, it’s, it’s no trouble at all,” she said, pushing back a curl, shying away from his eyes like many girls had done before, when he was in Hogwarts and even after, when he was already a known monster.

“Then, can I trouble with one thing more?” Tom asked.

“What is it?”

He ran a hand through his dark hair, his eyes looking up. A boyish candour to him, as if he was almost shy to ask.

“It’s getting rather long,” The Dark Lord smiled. “Will you cut it for me?”

It was a falsehood, of course. His shyness was less true than it was a play, a script to follow.

Though it wasn’t entirely out of selfish reasons. He needed her trust for his developing plan to work, he needed her open and agreeable.

But, it was long indeed, a veil of tar stretching almost to the valley between his shoulder blades. So it was both a part of the script and not, as well.

“How short?” She asked, holding the wet tresses in her hands, featherlight.

He, shirtless as to not taint the fabric with strands of fallen hair, sitting down while she was standing, waved a careless hand. “Cut away. It grows fast.”

“Like grass,” she agreed. “It was so long before you woke up. Almost to your waist. It looked very beautiful.”

“Did you cut it, then?” he asked.

“No,” May said, pulling the strands and cutting them carefully with scissors. “I wasn’t allowed to touch you. Halifax used a spell to trim it.”

Tom scoffed. “That explains it.”

She chuckled guiltily. A comfortable silence set in then, broken only by the snip of the scissors.

“Where’s your family from?” Tom asked, after a while.

“Bexley. They all live there. I have two brothers and two sisters. My dad owns a pub.”

“Are you the youngest?”

“I am. The only witch, too.”

A pause then. Her hands slipping from his hair.

“Sorry,” she said, sounding embarrassed, vaguely annoyed by her own reaction before she started cutting again.

“Don’t be,” Voldemort offered, gently. It wasn’t hard, pretending not to be mad at her. He wasn’t, in fact. She was far too kind, and even he could recognise the rareness of such currency. Even after all those years without having a sniff of it. He turned to look at her. She was far too untouched. How old, exactly? Where was she during the war? “I know what you’re thinking.”

He gave her a chance to speak, and when she didn’t, he carried on:

“I would not slaughter them. Your family. If I ever got out of here.”

May looked at him, some shock in her features, like she didn’t know; all this time, tending to a beast and still surprised with the flash of his fangs.

“I don’t randomly kill muggles,” he added, lamely. This was difficult. He never have had to explain himself before.  

“I…I know…” She whispered, holding the scissors tight between her hands, without even noticing.

“It would be…” Tom searched for a word, “ _Understandable_ if you thought so.”

The silence was now mildly uncomfortable. Heavy with the turning of her thoughts until May said, suddenly, firmly:

“And you do think it’s wrong now, don’t you? Hating us.”

He hesitated.  

“I don’t think I ever truly hated _you._ You read the file, didn’t you? It was always about my father. They got that part right.” A small smile. Not only that he needed to be redeemed by her – his whole plan depended on it – but he also _wanted_ to. Looking at her relief, he felt the undeterred hush of the feeling half-killed, the first of all tenderness. Something he longed for as a child and dispensed as make-believe. As false as a fairy tale where death could be undone by a kiss and a girl pulled unharmed from the belly of a wolf. He tried to turn it into lust – it should be easy, May was exactly his type: soft, soft in the belly and ample of breast, small of waist and wide on the hips – but his lust – the better part of it anyway – belonged to Harry now. What was left for her was disgustingly Freudian.

“But yes,” Tom added, finally, convincingly “I do think it’s wrong, now”

She smiled. Beamed, really.

“I’m really glad, Tom. Really, really glad. We’re truly making progress.”

They stared at each other for a moment, until she blushed.

“I should finish cutting your hair.”

 

When she was done his hair was almost as short as it had been in his school days. He looked at himself in the mirror, smiled approvingly and thanked her once more. Before May could leave, however, Tom asked for one thing more. Her eyes widened a little, but she laughed.

“Well, it will be harder to smuggle than chocolate but… I’ll try.”

He watched her go. For a second, he felt more at ease, the red in his eye growing back now that he didn’t have to pretend. It was always a joy to make people fall in love with him. And May – poor, sweet May – was a goner already. Ah, if only he had met one like that when he was in the Orphanage. It wouldn’t mend him – he suspected nothing would – but it would give him a greater happiness than life, as he had lived it, had provided.

 

 

Alone again. What should he do? There was a piece by Debussy he had been meaning to try, even though his fingers were still stiff; Abraxas’ lessons mostly forgotten. All he could play now were songs from children books. A waltz or two.

His book was tempting enough, but he was trying to pace himself, he was going through it too quickly.

The tablet, then? Or maybe the Prophet. 

Tom noticed the dirty magazine laying on his bed, the light giving a lustrous flare to the blonde’s tits. She was beautiful – plastic, but beautiful. Yet, nothing in him stirred. A lack of dark hair in her, her eyes the wrong colour – blue, not green. Tom scoffed in annoyance and pushed the magazine aside. The tablet it was, then.

 

 

_An eye for an eye_

But a soul. How to measure a soul.

 

                As days passed and magical sunlight blurred his days, Voldemort gave into the absent parts of himself.

Just one now.

He thought of the baby that had stolen from him.

Stole from him before he could walk. Before he could _speak_. Carved away that which he had no permission to touch. That seventh part.

He thought: how to be measure it?

Tom had considered, hunger-stricken, to eat from Harry, to feed of Harry.

Below his heart. Maybe a liver.

Above his heart. Maybe a bit of brain matter. To open the boy up and steal more than _himself_ back.

To eat Harry up. To make a meal out of him a meal to sate a childhood fault.

He still remembered the taste of his blood from the night of nights, so long ago. Sitting on the bottom of the cauldron and drinking, feeling the faint taste of it, his chosen one’s blood. Born addicted like a child from a junkie mother. Called forth, invited, like a ghost on the Día de Muertos, not only for that night but for all those that followed. Harry’s blood his most precious ofrenda.

 

 

And then, like his thoughts were spells of some kind—

Harry came back to him, after what felt like an eternity. He looked angry, his cheeks red, a subtle frown on his face.

“What is _that_?” the young Auror asked, in lieu of hello, looking at Tom’s tablet.

“It’s a muggle thing called a tablet, my little autumn flower,” Tom drawled, a smirk growing.

 “I know what it is,” Harry interrupted, impatiently “what are you doing with it?”

“May gave it to me. I find myself quite bored here, you know, and she kindly provided me with it so I could watch pictures. Cartoons, mostly, they don’t want me watching anything too violent. There’s one about a sheep called Shaun, and this very long story about a boy who wants to become the best ninja in his village, Naturo…”

“Naruto.” Harry corrected absently.

“…and _The Sound of Music,_ of course.”

“Does May expect to rid you of the evils of fascism through the magic of Julie Andrew’s singing?”

“She can certainly try.”

They looked at each other. Harry was smiling very softly, almost begrudgingly, like he wasn’t sure if he was disturbed or humoured. Annoyed, perhaps, at the ease in which Tom’s presence put him, Tom could tell. 

As if he could fight it. As if he could be this true with anyone else.

“Are you mad at something?” Tom said, not unkindly, but not bothering to censor the underlying teasing in his voice, either “Bad day at work?”

It rushed back then, all the pretty redness to his Horcrux’s cheeks. The boy was angry again, easily kindled like gasoline-soaked flesh. His tone was beyond impertinent when he bit back:

“Stop acting as if you’re a housewife waiting for her husband to come home. I know you don’t care about it.”

And as soon as he said it, Harry knew he had gone too far. Tom chuckled. It was entertaining to see the change in his expression, the way he looked away, pale, his arms crossing in front of his chest.  

The brat was asking for it, and Tom would give it to him.

“A housewife, huh?”

Harry blushed, but didn’t back away, not yet. He had some pride still to preserve. He murmured:

“Whatever.”

“Strip, then, _husband._ ” Voldemort commanded.

The veiled tension in the room unravelled and Voldemort could almost feel the relief in the boy. _Oh, how glad he must be that I allow him to be what he is,_ he thought, watching Harry unbutton the shirt. Pretty thing, obedient in this as he was in nothing else, slowly revealing his pink nipples, his waist, his little flat tummy.

“Are you wearing what I told you to?” Tom asked, his cock already hardening.

Harry blushed slightly and nodded.

“What was that?”

“Yes,” Harry corrected himself, a little annoyed, but accepting the word back in his mouth like a favourite dessert “ _Daddy._ ”

“Very good.” Voldemort purred. “Turn around. Show it to me.”

It was endearing, watching that ungainly little fawn trying to be sexy, but Tom was too obsessed to find any real fault in his Horcrux, even as he pulled his pants down faster than he should with no teasing beforehand like some girls that Tom had known used to do. The Dark Lord almost groaned at the sight.  Beneath those jeans Harry was wearing pink – pink! – lingerie. That sweet little ass, covered in lace so transparent it looked like foam.

Harry turned a little to peek to Voldemort’s expression.  The brat had the audacity to smirk:

“I guess you like it.”

He _did._ He wanted nothing more than to press his face to the fabric, to lick it, and the hole underneath until Harry was sobbing and mindless. But they had a score to settle. Harry had been bad and they were both aching for some hurt.

“You’re still on thin ice, young man.” Watched, as the expression – so paternal – woke something in his boy’s body. “Go stand by the wall. Press your hands to it, back to me.”

Tom went to him. He was ridiculously taller than the boy. A bird of prey looming over a nightingale. He put his hands on the boy’s jeans and pulled them all the way down. He stopped, smiled; felt it echoed on the boy’s lips when he paused _._ Sweet little harlot. Harry was wearing stockings too, the schoolgirl type, two threads of grey that went just above his knees, up his smooth, pale thighs.

“Fuck” Voldemort exhaled, his hands greedy and his mind fogged. _._

“You’re such a dirty old man” Harry chuckled, but he was breathless too and even from behind Tom could see he was blushing.

“Did you wear this all day long?” Voldemort asked, playing with the fabric of the boy’s panties, pulling them aside just enough to reveal the boy’s hole. He’d fuck him in them. “Did you get hard at work, imagining what I would do to you? Is that why you came here so desperate, provoking me, urging me to put you in your place?”

Harry didn’t answer, but he pressed the curve of his ass to Tom’s crotch. A tentative roll of his hips. Little fawn, learning how to entice and it worked on Tom, he was a thirsty old man for this boy. He would groan at the sight of his ankle, like a relic from Victorian times. He would get hard with kisses alone. Holding back a whimper to preserve his toughness. Grabbing a mouthful of his Horcrux’s black hair until it hurt.

“Answer me.”

 “Yes,” Harry moaned, “I need you, Daddy. Please.”

Voldemort eased the grip on the boy’s hair, brought the hand to his mouth and coated his fingers in saliva.

“I’ll have to teach you how to fucking ask for it properly.” He grazed the boy’s hole with his wet fingers, pressing in until that tight, pink flesh gave. Harry gasped at the penetration, tensed for a second before pushing back against Voldemort’s hand. It was insufficient lubrication but it was meant to be painful this time. “No one taught you some manners?” He carried on, stretching the boy on his fingers, not particularly concerned with his pleasure. If he brushed against his prostate, it was unintentional. A lazy smirk on the side of his mouth that would almost arouse in him something like guilt, afterwards. Of course the boy was a wild, impolite little thing, he had had no mommy or daddy to teach him better “Guess I’m the one to blame for that. But don’t worry,” by now Harry was panting loud, bright little _Aas_ and _Mores_ “Daddy will fix that.”

Harry was moaning softly when Tom took out his fingers, and whined and he pinched hard one of his nipples.

“Spread your legs more,” Voldemort ordered, “and don’t touch your cock.”

Tom undid his belt and pulled out his cock letting the gland brush against Harry’s skin, against the lace of his underwear. Precome already gathering on the tip, and he, pent up with three days of celibacy. _Dirty old man._ He pushed in. Harry whimpered. Tight, tight like the first time, but Voldemort had found no blood in the sheets after, he knew the boy could take it, he had suffered worst with no collateral elation. Harry looked back at him and there they were, glistering in his eyes, those tears of gratitude.

_Who has damaged you so?_

And maybe it was worse, but Voldemort didn’t know how to be anything else, that he wished to be the sole responsible for all of Harry’s misfortunes.  Let all his traumas carry his name.

He yanked harder at the boy’s hair, watched as his eyes rolled back and began to fuck in earnest.

His cock sucked in by a fit so tight it almost made the thrusts impossible. The pressure at his pelvis, the pleasure, pulling Harry towards him to kiss him bloody – all of that like slipping into heaven again.

“Fuck,” Was Harry’s turn to say, a lip pressed against his teeth, some pain to his voice “ _Fuck,_ Tom!”

He ended up holding the boy’s hands above his head and fucked him so hard that they were pressed to the wall, all sounds muzzled. Harry’s little cries did something to him, had always done it, even back in the days where he only hurt him with a wand. He had known Death Eaters that popped a boner while cruciating someone - he was sure that Bella got wet about it – but he had never empathised with it until Harry. He had always been methodical about it, compartmentalizing whatever sadism he brought to the bedroom and being cold in his torture. But with Harry…

Harry writhing like an offering. Screaming in the dark and the dirt like something to be done away with, the only flesh from which a particular monster could make his meal.

Was it too perverted? Did he care?

Tom bit at his shoulder, making Harry groan and then pulled out. He was too close to coming and he didn’t want to, not yet.

Harry stood there, hands to the wall and arms tucked in while regaining his breath. Tom ordered:

“Go lie on the bed. I want to look at you.”

Out of his own shirt, a makeshift bind. There would be an opportunity, hopefully, for him to introduce Harry properly to kinbaku.  A proper place too, where he could tie Harry up in bondage so intricate it was its own art form. Let him float in the air by a spell, his body bent and exposed, covered in red ropes. A place where he would have all the time in the world. Here, however, he bound his Horcrux’s wrists with crude knots above his head.

He looked at Harry with unconscious fondness, half-sitting, half-laying by his side on that ridiculously small bed. He was a little taller than 6’ and when he laid straight his feet reached the footboard. But Harry looked at home there, like Goldilocks sleeping on the bear cub’s bed. 

They kissed. Harry eagerly arching his back, trying to deepen the kiss with the little leverage that he had. Tom toyed with the boy’s nipples. He let his hand roam over to the edge of his stockings and then up again.

“You shaved” Tom noted, kissing Harry’s neck, pulling down his ruined lingerie “what a perfect girl you are.”

“Shut up,” Harry said, lifting his legs off the bed, laying naked but for the silk on his thighs. His erection unattended, wet on the tip.  “There wasn’t a lot of hair to begin with.”

“No,” Voldemort agreed, distractedly. He rose once more to look at the boy, leaving his neck aching, pink and red and bitten. All devotion. Feeding, like Christians did, on the body of his own divinity. “You’re beautiful.”

_I want to wreck you._

Harry blushed, full scarlet, and looked almost offended.

“Are you just gonna look at me or…?”

Voldemort laughed at that. The cheek on that brat. He left the bed and, with a pat on the boy’s ass, ordered:

“On your stomach. I’ll give you what you need.”

“Promises, promises.” The boy muttered, but obeyed.

(In the Orphanage the beatings had been rare but memorable. Strikes across the palms of his hands, which Tom endured, proudly, without making a sound.)

Tom lifted his own belt from the floor, folded it.

“You’ll keep your head down and count aloud like you did last time. Understood?”

“Yes, Daddy.”

It still thrilled him to be called so. He wondered why, that particular kink, from those particular lips. The wicked connotation behind it. Voldemort held the cheap leather in his hands, gazed at Harry’s ass. Healed already, not a trace of that first spanking. Hopefully this one would leave more lasting marks.

He raised his arm, pulling it a bit to the side. A dry sound at the impact when it came back, and Harry’s bitten down groan. More surprise than proper pain, for the sting was mild.

With each lash his flesh grew pink and then scarlet like a ripening fruit. Not a sound from the boy but the counting, and he didn’t flinch either – suffered it all with the same stoicism as an infant Tom Riddle had once, decades and decades ago. 

 

Thirty. _Thank you Daddy._

 

But that wouldn’t do. As Harry was turning his head, sure that the punishment was over, ass stinging and painted, Tom struck again, this time with the buckle. At this, _finally_ , the boy sounded wounded. A choked cry, half surprise half pain. It made Tom’s cock harder, set a smile on his face like a sun. He gave his Horcrux a moment. The boy whimpered, raising his hips slightly, never one to disappoint Voldemort:

“T-thirty-one.”

Again. _Again._ Harry cried out. The buckle’s frame left a vague print in the boy’s buttocks, a rectangular shape. The tenth strike drew blood at last, just a feel drops that bloomed from the bruise like red pearls. Tom let the belt fall the floor and got on the bed with Harry, his hand reaching down between the boy’s legs, feeling the erection that hadn’t flagged at all, stroking it lazily.

“You masochist whore.” Voldemort purred, enamoured, his cheek resting against the blood on his chosen one’s ass. He couldn’t resist – he licked it, and then further down, with blood still on his tongue, reached the boy’s hole, painting its pink a darker colour. Harry moaned and pushed back, rolling his hips, bound and inelegant and eager.

Tom moved his wrist faster, jerking the boy off while fucking his cunt with his tongue, pushing it past the tightness of his entrance. He raised the Horcrux’s to his knees so he could move more freely, spreading his legs. What followed was a messy fuck, Harry humping his face, bloody and desperate, whining loose words. It didn’t take long for Harry to cum, all unmade while Tom milked him to the point of overstimulation, his ass fluttering against Tom’s smirk.

Tom pulled back. His lips red and swollen. Harry’s breathing a rapid animal slowing down its run. Tom unknotted his wrists. Pressed a kiss to Harry’s hair.

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

Harry croaked.

“What? Ass-eating?”

“That’s what’s called?”

“God, you’re innocent.”

Harry turned to face Tom, wincing when his bruised skin grazed at the sheets.

“I’m not innocent. I’m just… new at this.”

Tom chuckled, stroking his own cock, his knees on either side of Harry’s torso. He asked:

“Have you ever had a man cum in your mouth?”

Tilting his head to the side, with a tiny, self-satisfied smile, Harry answered:

“As a matter of fact yes, I have.”

That’s wasn’t what Tom was expecting. He frowned.

“You told me it was your first time.”

“My first time being fucked. I gave head before, I’m not a monk.”

Tom halted the movement of his hand, leaned down fast and grabbed both of Harry’s wrists, pinning him to the bed.

“Who was it?”

“Does it matter?” Harry was still smiling, somewhat incredulously. “Are you jealous?”

“Of course I am.” Tom answered earnest like a child. An answer as obvious as two and two make four. His face like he was surprised that Harry didn’t know. “You’re mine.”

“Well,” Harry said, after a few moments of stillness, “Then do something about it, Daddy.”

 _Something_ would be peeling back the eyelids of the ones that had touched what was his. It would be, with muggle might, wandless, to crack open their skulls and dissolve by punching the fabric of their brains. To offer – courting gifts – their flayed skins to Harry.

When he got out. Soon.

“Open your mouth,” Voldemort ordered “show me your tongue.”

That kissed-red mouth. His pretty boy. Spent as Harry was, still his body was taut with anticipation, his cock starting to fill again. In an ideal world they would rut for days, his cock would be almost perpetually inside of Harry’s mouth or his arse. Tom’s wrist moved up and down, fast, with the same business-like ferocity he used when he was a teenager. He tilted his head, showed Harry a predator smile, watched the quivering of the boy’s eyelashes. Look at him. So fucking obedient. Waiting for his cum like a puppy eager for a treat.

He wanted to finish with eyes wide open but it was impossible. But he kept the image as his eyes rolled back and his cock twitched and the first drops hit Harry’s open mouth. A token from this world as he, for a brief moment, touched the next one.

Harry’s lips and mouth were tainted with cum but some of it was dripping down his cheek. Like that, ironically, the boy looked the most innocent Tom had ever seen him, with his big green eyes blinking slowly.

“I just noticed,” Harry murmured, his hand reaching as Tom met him halfway, “Your hair. It looks good like that.”

   


   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @nocturnememory for the beta. Any remaining mistakes are mine.

**Author's Note:**

> kudos and comments are very appreciated. You can find me at sambuckying.tumblr.com


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